


Holiday Healing

by waywardelle



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst-Free, Christmas in the Bunker, Ficlet, Fluff, M/M, Schmoop, re-established relationship, which is so unlike me, which is totally like me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 11:04:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5454317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardelle/pseuds/waywardelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After planning a big meal for Christmas, Dean takes them on a “milk run” hunt and is badly injured. Sam makes up for it in ways he didn’t expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holiday Healing

**Author's Note:**

> This came out of absolutely nowhere. I do this thing where I go to write a drabble (100 words) and end up writing SO MUCH MORE. These boys just have a lot to say sometimes, okay? They have a lot of feelings.

Dean usually does the cooking, right? Aside from a grilled cheese or two, Sam knows he’s pretty useless in the kitchen. Dean has this huge meal planned out for Christmas– lasagna, because “fuck ham,” he says, “and we’re making our own traditions, okay?” with a green salad and homemade garlic breadsticks. 

But a couple days before Christmas, a simple hunt, one Sam didn’t want to go on, _by the way,_ turns bad. Dean had called it a “milk run, Sammy, c’mon. Baby wants to stretch ‘er legs,” and Sam, who can’t deny Dean anything, went with, even though he had this growing feeling of dread as every mile marker passed them by. 

Dean was leveled by a Wendigo because his flare gun failed, and Sam barely got to him in time before he was the monster’s dinner. He had to carry Dean back to the car, blood dripping in a trail from a nasty wound on Dean’s head. His brother was still semi-conscious, but he was slurring and asking, “when did you get a twin, Sammy, when, two of you, oh no, I think I can only love _you _this much, Sam, I’m sorry, sorry twin, there’s jus’ no room for anythin’ else–”__

He gets Dean set up in bed with an IV drip and about six thousand stitches, and a sling around his shoulder because the Wendigo dislocated it when it wrenched Dean up to make him a meal, and his tough older brother looks pretty pathetic– but soft, too, in a way Dean rarely does, slurring on pain medication and fussing about his pillows being lumpy and scratching at his balls, smacking his lips, totally without shame, through his fleece-lined sweatpants. The sweatpants are actually Sam’s, so they’re a little big on Dean, but tight on his ass, and Sam tries not to notice because they swore up and down years ago they wouldn’t ever do this again, but how can Sam stop, how can he stop feeling that way when it’s the only way he’s ever felt his whole life?

He tries his best with Christmas dinner, but he burns the lasagna at the corners, black, and the greens are wilted with too much vinaigrette, and there’s no way he could even begin to make homemade bread. Almost in tears he’s so frustrated, he throws it all away and tosses a couple grilled cheese on the skillet and warms up some tomato and basil soup from a can, blinking back that frustrated saline trying to escape because he just wanted to do this one thing, this one nice thing for his older brother who always takes care of him, even when it bugs the fuck out of Sam, he’s always there, making him eat Dad’s stew with an airplane spoon and a blanket and a thermometer.

But Sam is a disappointment, always has been, he knows this. And Dean probably does too, by now, but for some reason Dean always sets the bar of expectations high in the face of Sam, always believes, always trusts, even if he says he doesn’t out of spite. 

He brings the soup and hot sandwiches in on a tray, and Dean struggles to sit up in bed, eyebrows furrowing together as his Vicodin-addled brain tries to put two and two together.

“Wass’all this?” Dean mumbles, face brightening as it always does when food is in sight, and Sam likes to think when he’s in sight, maybe, too.

“Christmas dinner,” Sam answers, ducking to hide his angry flush. “’S’not, what, you know– I couldn’t, I burned the–”

 _"Sammy,"_ Dean breathes, sounding so happy, little boy smile with bright eyes on his stupidly handsome face. There is silver threaded through his hair at the temples, and maybe Sam is a sappy fucker, but it reminds of him tinsel, and more importantly, that Dean is still alive, alive and getting older, old enough to grow those hairs. “You ‘membered. This, this is for me?”

“Well, us. Yeah.” Sam feels kind of stupid, just shuffling his feet with a tray in hands, but Dean beckons him forward with grabby hands and shuffles over in his bed, wincing, to make room for Sam.

Sam has tears again, but they’re gratitude and love, so much love for this man who might knock him down but knows how to lift him back up so high, higher than anyone, anything else. Dean forgoes his spoon for the last couple slurps of soup and tips the bowl back against his lips, dribbling it all down the front of him, landing among the grilled cheese crumbs settled in his happy trail, and he frowns adorably.

“Idiot,” Sam says fondly, using a napkin to blot at the red stains on his brother’s bare chest, not unlike the blood that was caked there a day earlier. 

Dean hums, closing his eyes, so content to be taken care of, so happy under Sam’s careful touch. Sam doesn’t know why he always doubts himself, his ability to make everything better with Dean, because Dean lights up like this every time, with just a little bit of attention, a little bit of that deep-rooted, intrinsic care he has circled back onto him– as long as it’s Sam doing it, gruff with anyone else, and Sam loves that, glows at that. Because despite the differences and fights and nasty words, Sam’s got that same deep-rooted, intrinsic love for his brother buried deep in him, in his very marrow, swimming in his blood, his pulse, pumping DeanDeanDean through his heart. It’s a relief, it’s always a relief to be able to let it out, to be tender with his tender-hearted, macho-esque big brother.

Dean curls up to him, smacking his lips, and Sam feeds him a couple more pills to ease his way into sleep. He can feel Dean’s hot, tomato and cheese breath on his neck, then on his face, then right against his lips. Sam closes his eyes for the press, so soft it’s like a dream, and he can’t help the sob that escapes him. 

“Thank you, Sam,” Dean says right against his mouth, the words echoed from a Christmas long ago catching against Sam’s lips, wet with Dean’s mouth and his own grateful tears. “I love it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments make my wittle heart pitter-patter, and it's the best Christmas present in the world. Whatever you celebrate, I hope you all have a wonderful holiday seasons, and if you don't celebrate anything, I hope you have an amazing December. I love you all so, so much. Here's to more brother-touching in 2016!


End file.
